The Story of the Girl and Her Mom

once upon a time

So, four years ago they diagnosed this girl with a rare genetic disorder called “Cowden’s Syndrome.”  Soon after they diagnosed her, they diagnosed her mom too.

And the mom and the girl read everything they could find, which really wasn’t very much.

And they asked a lot of questions.  Some from the doctors, but mostly from people on the internet who had this Rare Disease too.

They learned a lot.  They also learned there was a lot to learn.

They learned about cancer risks, and how very high they are.

They learned about screening tests.

They met lots of new doctors.  Some were super awesome, and others were super awful.

They fired the awful ones, and kept the awesome ones.

The doctors sent them for tests, and screenings, and blood draws, and all sorts of poking and prodding.

At the beginning it was pretty much all they had time for.

the girl who is always there

The girl had lots of surgeries, and lost her thyroid, and then they called her a “previvor” because they said she got it out just in time before it was cancer.

The mom, she had a bunch of surgeries too.  In one they found cancer.  But she was called a “survivor” because it was all gone.  (Thanks to the girl who got diagnosed first and saved her life.)

The girl and her mom ran from doctor to doctor.  They sat in traffic for forever.  They stayed in hospitals and had surgeries, and tests.  Everyone treated them kind of strange.  Like they were aliens or something.  Their condition was so rare that hardly any doctors even understood what they were supposed to do.

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Over time the girl and her mom got a better idea of what really mattered and what didn’t.  They started to be more assertive about doctors, and schedules and planning.  They started to say, “not right now,” sometimes, knowing that a few weeks wouldn’t matter, but a few months might.

The girl and her mom talked a lot about Cowden’s Syndrome.  They talked a lot about Rare Diseases.  Sometimes they were really angry.  Sometimes they were sad, and other times they were grateful.  They saw what some other people with Rare Diseases went through.

The girl and her mom had LOTS of long talks, real talks about tumors, and tests, and cancer, and life.

They worked on some things separately and some things together.  But they agreed to get busy living.

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That didn’t mean they could ignore the seemingly endless doctors appointments.  They all had to be done.  It meant they could schedule smarter.  It meant they would talk about what symptoms had to be addressed right now and which ones could wait.  It meant they had to get really good at communicating.

This isn’t always so easy since the girl is almost a teenager, but they are getting pretty good at it.

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The girl had 4 surgeries this year, some more major than others, but she spent lots of time recovering.  And she learned that she liked to be busy.  She likes to sleep too, but she likes to be busy.  With kids.  Often.  She also likes to be active.  A lot.

The girl and her mom still have this Cowden’s  Syndrome, and sometimes for reasons no one understands, they hurt a lot.  Sometimes the pain makes it hard for one of them to push on.  Sometimes the tired almost feels like they can’t go on.

But the girl and her mom, they push each other.  They push each other to press on because laying down and giving up is not an option.

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Their days are long.  The mom works full-time.  The girl goes to 7th grade and makes high honor roll.

Their afternoons are full of drama club, the girl’s love of theatre, and lots of swim practice.  The days are often 13 hours or more of constant motion.

The girl and her mom, they decided that they might have a Rare Disease, but it definitely wasn’t going to “have” them.

So they decided that whatever comes their way, they are going to be active, healthy, strong, fueled with nutritious food, and built of muscle.  This way if Cowden’s punches, they will punch back harder.

Sometimes the mom wonders if life would have been different without the girl.  The mom wonders if alone she would have been able to push on.

But she doesn’t have to wonder.  Because they have each other.  And, because this weekend they spent 3 days at a swim meet.  And the girl knocked major time off her events.

And, when they came home, the daddy, who is the glue that holds them together, had warm chicken, and rice and vegetables, the healthy fuel  – all ready.

And the mom and the girl were so grateful.  For each other.  For the desire to fight.  For the strength from good food, and faith, and the love of a dad who backs them up every step of the way.

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And as the mom drove the girl to youth group at their church, they talked, about the swimming.  And about the fundraiser they are planning. So that Rare Diseases scarier than theirs get some attention.  “For the Babies,” and so that there can be research for this Cowden’s Syndrome.  So that maybe it can get stopped in its tracks.

And as the mom walked home enjoying the fresh crisp air of Fall she was filled with gratitude.

For this story of BEATINGCOWDENS has only just begun.  And each chapter holds more promise than the next…

Recovery – Everything is Relative

recovery

 (Merriam – Webster)

Medical Definition of RECOVERY

:  the act of regaining or returning toward a normal or healthy state
Recovery.  Is it a place?  A state of being?  A state of mind?  Who knows?  But, we spend a lot of time here.  It’s really sort of a family affair, although without a doubt the one who takes the brunt of it is always Meghan.  Four times in the last 10.5 months, and most recently three times in the last 6 months,  there has been general anesthesia, and necessary recovery.  That is a record for her that I pray she never surpasses.  
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In November and May it was the knee – one emergency, one planned. In between it was the hand.  A pesky, tiny AVM, gotten before it got to be too big of a deal.  She JUST was cleared to take a break from the recovery PT on Thursday.  And on Friday it was the wisdom teeth.
We laughed a lot before the teeth came out.  We called her an overachiever and kept the mood light reminding her that years from now she would be able to boast being the first, when her friends inevitably would need theirs done too.  This surgery had a glimmer of “normal” attached to it – although distinctly unique in her age.
But, being unique isn’t always a place you want to be.  Especially at 12.  Sometimes you just want to blend in a little.
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It’s less than ideal to have a weak knee with a persistent AVM.  It’s no fun at all to grow AVMs – even tiny ones – in the palms of your hands.  (One in EACH hand to be fair.)  It doesn’t make for good conversation, when your experiences are operating rooms, and your excitement comes from which doctor hurts less when they put the needle in.  Which 12-year-old would really know how to respond?  It’s certainly not the place you want to be as the FIRST wisdom tooth survivor of all your friends, when none have seen their own swollen puffy cheeks, or have any idea the pain as the incisions begin to heal and the stitches work their way through.
And I knew the prcedure even surprised the surgeon.  When I went to her as she woke up, the medication plan had changed.  Initially she was to recover on Tylenol.  I was handed a script for a narcotic pain reliever and instructed to be sure she used it.  It’s never dull.  Or easy.
fly then walk
It’s no solace to her that I understand THAT surgery.  Because I had it AGES ago, and I don’t remember too much except pain.  And, I won’t be in school with her tomorrow to give her Tylenol, or reassuring glances, or soft food.
Recovery, when she was little included furry stuffed animals, and lots of rest time.  It included balloons, and all sorts of pomp and circumstance.
Recovery, now is more about the sporadic texts and occasional pop-overs while she tries to maintain her school work.
Recovery now includes the realization that it’s very definition of “returning toward a normal or healthy state,” could prove to be elusive, indefinitely.
We do a lot of talking.  We all know how fortunate we are.  We all understand how much worse all this could be.  We have depth of knowledge of those around us who suffer.  We think.  We pray.  We miss our friends.
grass is greener
Recovery, on this beautiful holiday weekend, involved trading walks in the fall air, for open windows.  It involved being nearby all night, because I was allowed.  Recovery means family time.  And maybe that’s one of the things that keeps us sane.
Perhaps “recovery” has become a routine venture.  And THAT in and of itself could lead to a whole lot of other conversations.
Tomorrow it’s back to business.  The plan is to swim by Thursday.  After all, there is a meet this weekend.
Our goals in this house far exceed recovery.  That’s way too repetitive.

We like a challenge.  We are BEATINGCOWDENS!

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“An Accumulation…”

I once read a story where a special needs mom described her daughter’s seemingly “over the top” fear of needles to a phlebotomist who had no frame of reference, compassion, or desire to understand. The phlebotomist had written the child off as poorly behaved, and the mom as one with no control. This mom said plainly to the phlebotomist, “It’s not you. It’s not even the needle any more, at least I don’t think so. You are AN ACCUMULATION of botched blood draws and rolled IV attempts. You are an ACCUMULATION of her being stripped of her control, and of all the pain that has come from those needles.”

That story stuck with me in the deepest way. And I have told doctors, nurses, and phlebotomists alike, whose egos are sometimes easily bruised by an incredibly anxious 12-year-old, not to take it personally. That is if course unless they get it wrong and add to the problem…

Tomorrow morning Meghan will head to the oral surgeon for general anesthesia and surgery 15.

The surgery itself this time is not that unusual.  The wisdom teeth are impacted and the bottom two will come out tomorrow.  Years of orthodontics are complete, not to be damaged by over-anxious wisdom teeth making an unwelcome early appearance.

I say it’s not unusual. Except that she’s 12.

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If you think about when you had your own out, my guess is you were somewhere between 17 and 21.  And, at the time you had them done you knew at least a few people your age who already did it.  And you were in turn “there” for your friends that followed.

Except once again she’s braving unchartered territory alone.

For those that have challenged her on calling this “surgery,”  I will remind you that is probably how you referred to yours.  At the oral SURGEON, under anesthesia.

There have been countless well-meaning adults, telling her about their wisdom teeth, and how it’s no big deal.

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And while their intentions are good, I bet there aren’t going to be too many people absent from her junior high this year to get their wisdom teeth pulled.

As “normal” as things are, they just aren’t.

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By the time her friends get theirs done they will not remember, and I’ll likely have to vouch for her story that hers came out at 12.

The oral surgeon’s office called to remind me she shouldn’t eat or drink after midnight.  They shouldn’t worry.  I stopped any use of NSAIDs, and fish oil, and unneccessary multivitamins a few days ago.

We’ve got this.

She just shouldn’t have to.

It’s a recurring theme.  But, we will endure.  Because we have no other option.

Defrosting the chicken for tomorrow’s soup.

We are BEATINGCOWDENS!

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The War Ain’t Over Yet…

Tonight wasn’t one of our better nights. And, as we drove home, and sorted through a few things, I offered Meghan this outlet.  I told her writing helps me sort out my thoughts and get refocused.  Here is Meghan, as our GUEST BLOGGER….

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Tonight I couldn’t finish practice. Yesterday I hurt my knee, my kneecap clicked back out at practice and I got shocking pain through my leg. A lot. So I pulled the rest of practice and iced my knee when we got home. I went again to practice today and hurt my knee so much that I couldn’t continue. I went home in tears feeling like I just failed. I gave in tonight. I lost this battle, but I will win the war. Tomorrow I will not play gym, for I will save my strength for swimming.

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So, I will go back to Wagner on Saturday, and I will finish practice and do it well. I love swimming, and I love the pool. When I swim I feel like I’m actually at peace. I won’t lose my favorite thing in the world. I will keep fighting, and Cowden’s Syndrome will not win the war. I WILL.

I cannot be normal, and I cannot play as much as I’d like to with the kids. I always have to watch and be careful about what I do to my body. Well, I am not going to let that stop me. I’m going to succeed and I’m going to live my life to the fullest.

Cowden’s Syndrome may win quite a few battles, but I will win this war. I will keep fighting and I will stay strong. I will get some injuries along the way, but I will recover.

Hey Cowden’s, did ya hear me? The war’s NOT over yet, and you will not be the victor. Take your small victories, for today was one of the days when I did give in, but it won’t be happening again any time soon.

small-battles

Do What You Love


It was almost 8:40 last night as I drove down Grymes Hill with Meghan.  She hadn’t been home since we left for school at 7:20 that morning. She was facing a shower, dinner, homework, and a later than normal bedtime.  She had spent the afternoon registering for her after school drama program, and had spent the last two and a quarter hours in some combination of intense exercise- on land and in the water.  She was exhausted and it was evident in her face. But, not it her voice or her mannerisms.


“I know I’ve got you running all over the place Mom, and I know it’s a lot of hours.  But, I have to tell you that I LOVE it.”


I couldn’t help but smile in spite of myself. We all want for our children to do what they love. And here she was; registered for drama, swimming 4 days a week, pushing the herself at school, enjoying church youth group, and planning a fundraiser for February.


She feels rotten. A lot. But she pushes. And I have to believe that is how we have to live this syndrome – this life.  Maybe I’m a good influence after all.

She plays in pain. Constantly.

She is always recovering from or anticipating something. But instead of waiting for the storm to pass…

She’s clearly dancing in the rain.


We have our spats. We’re supposed to. But, we balance each other too.

We keep each other motivated. We keep each other grounded.  Her diagnosis still makes me physically ill.  But, it does not, can not, and will not define her. I’m convinced.
Do what you love I tell her. Do what makes you happy. And she does.

And I do too. Watching her for hours, on the bench, in the basement by the pool makes me happy. Watching her on stage makes me happy. Watching her persevere makes me proud.

We will do this- together. We are BEATINGCOWDENS.

Hyper-vigilance

Hyper-vigilance.  Although Wikipedia is not my favorite source for all things – it defines this quite well.

Hyper-vigilance is an enhanced state of sensory sensitivity accompanied by an exaggerated intensity of behaviors whose purpose is to detect threats. Hyper-vigilance is also accompanied by a state of increased anxiety which can cause exhaustion.

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When we were first diagnosed, and I had a long conversation with a Mom who had been where I was many years before, she told me we would be OK, but we would need to be forever vigilant.  Understanding now, what I didn’t then, is that Cowden’s Syndrome requires more than vigilance, it necessitates hyper-vigilance.

The two are very different.  One is a state you may be in sometimes, when it is necessary.  The other is a place you never leave.  Ever.

I don’t compare illnesses, in the sense of one being, “better, harder, easier, more difficult, more painful…” than another.  That to me is silly.  I know LOTS of people who suffer on a regular basis.  I can’t say I would want to trade places with any of them.  And, I can only speak from my lens.

My lens is that of a mother, who is watching her child battle through a chronic (FOREVER) illness with potentially life-threatening, and definitely life-altering ramifications – while battling that same illness myself.

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I don’t view us as “sick” people.  As a matter of fact we are regularly called,” The healthiest looking sick people…”  But, we aren’t “well” either.  It gets complicated.  Quickly, and often.

Hyper-vigilance requires me to do everything I perceive is in my power to try to stave off the tumors and vascular anomalies looking to create havoc, chaos and confusion in our bodies.

Hyper-vigilance necessitates monitoring food intake.  Avoiding food allergens/sensitivities because they cause vomiting and severe GI distress.  That means NEVER leaving the house without food.  JUST IN CASE.  It also means spending weekends cooking so that “quick meals” come out of my freezer and not a drive through window.  It means providing the most intense nutritional products I can find to fuel a body that would otherwise be running on empty.  It means driving far and long to get the right food at the right stores.  It means making sure the sweet treats that are allowed are not full of dyes and preservatives because they compromise further a documented severely compromised immune system.

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Hyper-vigilance means watching the medication intake.  To make sure we don’t forget an antiviral.  Because when we do it sets off a tirade of events that are hard to bounce back from.  It means typing the list, and checking it over.  It means teaching her to know her medicine on sight.  It means avoiding everything we don’t need and willingly taking things like probiotics to help that fragile stomach.  It means knowing that when you have chronic viral infections they are ALWAYS waiting for an “in.”  It means leaving NOTHING to chance, and having spare pill cases in every bag with extra of everything, especially digestive enzymes.  It also means spending HOURS AND HOURS trying to make the mail order medication people get it right.  Which I sometimes think is just not ever going to happen.

Hyper-vigilance means scheduling the doctors.  All of them.  All the time.  It means making sure all the screenings, for all the ridiculous number of cancers we are at an increased risk of developing, are done on schedule.  It means often following up on those appointments, with imaging studies and more appointments.  And then repeating those “unclear” imaging studies, again and again.  It means getting blood work done, often.  Usually at least once every 4 weeks.  It means talking to the endocrinologist and problem solving with him when he admits “it doesn’t make sense” as you strive to help your girl at least feel better.  It involves medication adjustments.  Making sure it’s taken on an empty stomach, and every single day.  It means there is always a list nearby of who needs to be scheduled next.  It’s right alongside the pile of bills that have inevitably been messed up by someone, and now need receipts faxed and hours on the phone to be kept out of collection agencies.

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Hyper-vigilance is hearing the symptoms every day and trying not to panic.  When there is a headache, sharp and sudden, or a pain in the knee, or the back, or the shoulder, or the leg, and you know your kid is NOT a hypochondriac as some others would like to think, you have to listen, sort, and mentally file all of these.  Hyper-vigilance is keeping track of which ones repeat and which ones go away on their own.  Hyper-vigilance is being very aware, but never panicking.  It’s a fine line.

Hyper-vigilance is Physical Therapy.  As often as we can fit it in.  Because something always hurts.  When one foot is 2 sizes smaller than the other because the treatments for the AVM in the knee cut the blood flow to the foot, so the bone stopped growing, you end up “off sides”.  The hip, the shoulder, the knee.  They all hurt, and it won’t get better.  It will only get managed.  For as long as we can fit in the PT.

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Hyper-vigilance is also finding balance.  It’s also searching somewhere for “normal.”  It’s making 4 swim practices a week, often on raw nerve.  Because she wants to feel normal.  She wants to compete.  And let’s be truthful, she wants to win.  It’s about me never really leaving the grounds of the college 12 extra hours a week because we are always one step away, and sometimes a half-step from “just in case,” and “what if.”  It’s getting her to drama, because she’s skilled there.  And she fits in.  And the teacher is awesome, and the kids know her for who she is.  It’s about balancing the schoolwork, and doing her best, while teaching her not to beat herself up.  Too much stress is no good for anyone.  Especially when you have this random tumor growing condition that preys on extra stress.

Hyper-vigilance is remembering I have this “Cowden’s Syndrome” too.  It is making sure I am at my best so that she is at hers.  It’s remembering that I sport fake silicone boobs as a constant reminder that I’m not invincible and cancer found me.  It’s remembering they were worried enough to take the uterus and the ovaries too.  It is working hard, at my job, and my life, and showing her it can be done.  But it’s also about letting her know I get tired too.  Because in those moments she sees that she is normal.  And yesterday when I struggled to even walk up a flight of stairs, I saw the concern in her eyes.  And she picked up the vacuum.  And she helped.  It’s teaching her to take care of herself by some days letting her take care of me.

Hyper-vigilance is walking.  Me.  Walking 4-5 miles a day almost every day.  Because my bones are already crapping out.  After 30 years on thyroid pills and 3 years after a hysterectomy, at 41 I’ve been placed on warning.  It’s necessary for me to take good care of me.  To fuel my body properly.  To limit the junk in.  To respect this body because it’s already got a lot going against it.

Hyper-vigilance is making decisions in the moment.  It is having to say no, we can’t go.  It’s not being able to tell people in advance.  It takes away from advance planning, even the fun stuff.  Because life with chronic illness is day by day.  It makes me feel badly, often.  So sometimes I avoid making plans.  I don’t even like to volunteer for too much because I just don’t know whether things will be ok that morning.

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Hyper-vigilance can be very isolating.

It’s hard for some people to understand.  And I get it.  Because a few years ago it might have been hard for me to understand too.  It makes people uncomfortable that this thing we have is never going to get better.  People feel better when things can be fixed.  But it can’t.  We are not going to grow out of it.  It’s here.  It’s part of us.  Like the ‘elephant in the room.’  But, we understand other people’s problems too.  We get the myriad of health issues that surround us.  And we empathize.  And we don’t need to be sheltered from them.  As a matter of fact, we might like it is sometimes people shared their worries with us too.

Hyper-vigilance is exhausting.  And today I took a two-hour nap.  Because my throat started to hurt.  And my body was giving me all the warning signs that I had pushed a little too far.  I shortened the walk.  I stayed in mostly.

It’s like training.  For real life.  Because there is not an event at the end, that will finish with a medal and a sense of accomplishment, and a new goal. My forever goal will be to keep us healthy, and to keep the Cowden’s Syndrome at bay.  The only path to this end is hypervigilance.  And even then, just like in life, there are no guarantees.

We remain forever  Beatingcowdens!

Summer List

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I have been walking around all day with that nagging feeling in my stomach.

I have packed my bag, and Meghan’s too.

I have filed, organized, and made lots of lists.

There is a new schedule on the wall – color coded and everything.

The calendar says it’s time, but my heart, and my stomach beg to differ.

Summer was to be about beaches, and barbeques.  It was to be about road trips and freedom.  It was designed for friends, and fun, and get-togethers.

Except that most of that never came to be.

There was that knee surgery in May, that derailed any hope of walking long distances for a while, and thrust us into 2x a week PT.  Which, even though we LOVE Dr. Jill, can be daunting in the schedule.  And, it eliminated most day trips that could easily be taken for granted, if you don’t have to factor in that a walk more than about 3/4 mile is out of the question.

And while that was going on Daddy was rebuilding the deck.  Alone.  For three months.  Every spare minute of April, May and June.  It looks so beautiful.  Maybe next year we will get some people over to relax and enjoy the deck, and the grass.  The new grass, artificial, durable, and a drastic improvement over the old side yard.  Yes, maybe next year.

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We got the pool open the first week in July.  And July had drama “camp,” and I use the term VERY loosely.  And July had swim practice.  And July had doctors, some regular, like PT, others on the 6 month schedule.  And some blood tests, and some ultrasounds, and a bone density test for mom.  I think I stopped counting at 30 appointments.

But, thankfully August had Disney.  And there are few other things that can bring me such joy as a vacation with my family to the “Happiest Place on Earth.”

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And August had it’s own set of appointments, including hand surgery to remove a vascular lesion from her palm.  And setting up the whole wisdom teeth thing for September.

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So it’s easy for me to be sad.  And down on things. Because I want a do-over.  But, I guess that’s normal.  Because most people probably do.

I sat down tonight to get my head clear.  To “flip it,” and get my head and my heart in the right place for tomorrow.  I sat down to acknowledge the many things I have to be grateful for, and the things that went WELL this summer.

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So, in no particular order…

  1. The new deck.  No splinters.  No maintenance.  Pretty.  And finished.
  2. The new grass.
  3. Walking barefoot in my backyard.
  4. Road trip to West Virginia, that I took alone, on a very rainy June weekend to meet some Marines.  Healing help.

    My road trip to West Virginia
    My road trip to West Virginia
  5. Listening to my girl sing.  In pain.  In joy.  In the shower.  In the living room.  In the car.  Anywhere.
  6. Healing progress.  From both recent surgeries.  And the resilience to continue to endure.
  7. Laughter.  Mine.  His.  Hers.  Friends of hers.  Strong laughter.
  8. Disney.  I’d go back three times a year if I could.
  9. Graduation party, bridal shower, and a wedding.   Mom being 18 years cancer free.  Meghan turned 12, and Felix had a birthday too!  We celebrated Pop’s 96th birthday.  Celebrations.
  10. Board games.
  11. Green tea – together.
  12. Trips to Ralph’s.
  13. Watching my all time favorite movie, “Dead Poet’s Society” with my girl.
  14. Nutrition packed shakes, EVERY day.  Even in Disney.  Fueling my body.
  15. Reading a book my friend in Australia wrote about Cowden’s – for all the world to see.
  16. Antibiotics that heal recurrent infections.
  17. Walking.  5 miles a day, most days.  and at least 10,000 steps every day since July 8th.  Goal met.IMG_5094
  18. Last, and DEFINITELY not least, were my walks with Mom.  My healing walks with Mom.  There were so many mornings when she and I walked together, 2 miles, with 2 dogs.  We talked this summer more consistently, and for longer, than we have in a long time.  I think this was one of the best things that happened all summer.  She is a strong lady.  Lyme Disease took a stab at her this summer.  Apparently for the second time.  And she has told it where to go.  So often she is a grounding force for me in this never-ending battle to remain BEATING COWDENS.  I will miss those walks.  They were not just for the FitBit, but so much for the heart and the mind.

    My Mom. My first hero. My friend. We need an updated picture.
    My Mom. My first hero. My friend. We need an updated picture.

And that is just what my compulsive, reflective, organized self needed.

Because now, I feel a little better.  It wasn’t what I had hoped.  There was sadness, and worry. for my own girl, and for so many others.  For adults I love, and for a former student fighting a formidable battle.

But, I woke up every day.  And lots of days the sun shined.  And fun doesn’t have to stop just because school starts.

So as I lay my head down tonight I will do my best to do it with gratitude.  For new days.  For new seasons.  For a job with a kind boss, helpful colleagues, and wonderful children.  For a job that begins new every year.  For the knowledge that every day, every season, will hold blessings and challenges, for us and for everyone.

I wish you all a wonderful fall, but I’m not closing the pool just yet….

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Losing Count…

In school I count children.  Religiously.  Especially in September.  I count them in, and out.

I count pencils, to pacify my OCD.  12 to a table.

I count days until appointments, special occasions, and vacations.  I love numbers.

I have a tendency to remember addresses, phone numbers, anniversaries and dates.

So it’s a really big deal in my mind when I realize I am losing count of Meghan’s surgical procedures.

counting

I keep a list in my bag, that I update often.  I have a 16 gig flash drive with a history spanning 12 years in that same ziploc bag in my purse.  But, this year.  Well, this year has been a little more wild than usual.

And every time I say it, I find the old saying, “You ain’t seen nothing yet..” coming true.  But, every year I sit at an IEP meeting talking about discontinuing some services, and we always say, “When she goes a year with no surgery…”

Good thing I’m not holding my breath.

See I wrote, and I think I blogged, TWICE in the last week, that the hand surgery was Meghan’s 13th surgery.  Except it wasn’t.  It was the 14th.

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And maybe, when I lose count, it’s time to stop counting.  Because they are all starting to blur together.

2004- Epigastric hernia surgery

2007 –  Gall Bladder Removed

2008 Tonsils and adenoids removed

2008 Back mass lipoma

2009 Oral “fibrous polyp”

2009 Embolization (internal) AVM right knee

2010 Embolization (internal)  AVM right knee

2011 Direct Stick Embolization AVM right knee

2012 Direct Stick Embolization AVM right knee

2013 excision of mass from right palm

2014 complete thyroidectomy

Nov. 2014 emergency (direct stick) embolization AVM right knee

May 2015 Arthroscopic Surgery – Right knee

August 2015 Excision of vascular lesion from left palm

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But, just as I think I should stop counting.  Just as I think that this is “normal,” or that these procedures are somehow “minor,” I realize the ridiculous nature of that train of thought.

THIS IS NOT NORMAL.  THIS IS COWDEN’S SYNDROME.  And, BEATINGCOWDENS is what we do, but it is far from NORMAL!

This week, Meghan had a fever blister break out before her surgery.  Maybe nerves, maybe coincidence, maybe a medication screw up.  Whatever.  It reminded me again, that her body is taxed.  It is tired.  I have been hunting through past blood work, another plan in place to try to deal with chronically low IgG levels.

She spent the 48 hours after the “minor” hand surgery with high fever and frightening headaches.

We had to postpone the follow-up to the “real” 13th surgery Thursday morning because she could not get into the car.

No surgery is minor.  And we run the risk of confusing things we are used to with things that are not significant.  And that is a dangerous road.

It is so important to keep validated, as an adolescent or as an adult.  When we trivialize procedures, intentionally or not, we invalidate the patient.  Cowden’s Syndrome patients will undergo insane numbers of procedures, surgeries, hospitalizations and testing in their lives.  They all matter.  Because we matter.  And while we are forever grateful every time a surgery is smooth, benign, and uncomplicated, we are all a little more rattled than we were before.

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So LOSING COUNT, is not acceptable.  It somehow trivializes the nature of what goes on here.

We didn’t get to the beach this summer.  We did get to Disney.  Thank goodness.  Because pretty much everything else we did involved traffic, a co-pay and a parking garage.

We are blessed.  We are grateful.  We are in tune to the tragedies and horrors around us.  But, sometimes it gets lonely.

We miss barbeques and parties.  We cancel at the last-minute.  We rarely socialize.  It’s not because we don’t want to.  It’s because things change so quickly we can not keep up.  And then it looks like we don’t want to.  But, it’s just not true.

We are eternally grateful to the people who reach out.  Just for a minute. Because it matters.

If you’re reading this because you know someone with Cowden’s or a similar syndrome, my advice to you is reach out.  Text.  Call.  Email.  It’s not about money, or grand gestures.  It’s the 5 minutes you spend that will truly aid in the recovery process.

Because recovery is essential.  Number 15 is just around the corner.  And even though that’s a “regular” surgery, I bet not many of us have had our wisdom teeth extracted at the age of 12.

It’s physical.

It’s mental.

It’s emotional.

It does not stop.

BEATINGCOWDENS

 

 

Repetition

It never gets easier. No matter how sure I am about how fortunate we are, and no matter how much time I spend praying for those other mothers- the ones who are waiting through surgeries beyond the scope of my emotional grasp, it never gets easier.

  
Today she walked away alone. Into the operating room without her father or myself. She’s in good hands. I really like the surgeon, and I’m a tough sell. Even having repeated this waiting twelve times before- it never gets easier.

  
I tried on the way in, to make her feel like it was not such a big deal. That was dumb. It’s a big deal. No matter what. I was trying to make her feel better. It didn’t even make ME feel better.

  
Because the truth is, we know. We know it could be worse. We are grateful all the time. But that doesn’t mean it’s not important. It doesn’t mean it’s not a big deal, and it doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter. Even if it’s the third one in the last 12 months. Even if it’s the 13th surgery.

  
Maybe especially if it’s the 3rd one in the last 12 months….

So she’s BEATINGCOWDENS… While I wait… My hero.

Anticipation…

Funny how things creep into the mind.  Then there was this Heinz commercial from the 70s.

Anticipation – is making me wait…

Tomorrow we do it again.  Surgery 13.  Vascular malformation, left palm.

Hopefully it has kept a safe distance from the artery.

Hopefully it is smooth and easy.

But, we worry.  And it’s normal.  Just because you’re USED to something, doesn’t make it OK.

Anticipation…

We will rest, although I don’t expect much sleep.